


I'm Way Out of My Depth Again

by Chash



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 05:15:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6410278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chash/pseuds/Chash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy is pretty sure he's going to stop having sex with Clarke at some point. But he's not going to be the first one to bring it up, because maybe if he doesn't, they can just keep going.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Way Out of My Depth Again

Every time it happens, Bellamy assumes it's the last time. It's the problem with casual hookups; he doesn't know how it happens the first time, and he doesn't know how it keeps happening. He just knows it's awesome, and he never wants to stop.

And, okay, obviously he knows _how_ it happens. He's there; it's not like he misses the sequence of events. He's out for drinks on Friday with all his favorite coworkers: Miller from the English department, Lincoln and Maya from math, Monty and Raven from, biology and physics, respectively, and Clarke, the art teacher, it must be said, and his absolute favorite.

After three rounds, Maya starts complaining about sexual frustration, which is--new. Maya's always quiet until she's not, and he never knows what to expect when she does talk.

"I've just been single for _eight months_ ," she says. "And I'm starting to get tired of--manual stimulation. I tried Tinder and I hit Angela Parker's dad and it freaked me out so much I deleted the entire app. So--I don't know what to do."

"Ten months for me," says Monty, holding up his hand. "I feel you."

"Four," says Miller, and Monty definitely looks interested. Bellamy hides his smile in his beer; he's pretty sure Monty didn't know Miller and his boyfriend broke up. He's glad Miller has figured out how to get the information out.

"No comment," says Lincoln, not looking at Bellamy. He knows that Lincoln is sleeping with his sister, because the two of them have been dating for a year, and it's not like he really thinks their relationship is--well, they're adults and he's happy for her, but he's just as glad Lincoln is not giving him the exact date of their last sexual encounter.

"Last night for me too," says Raven, and Bellamy kicks her under the table. She grins. "What about you, Mr. Blake?"

He considers, but honesty seems like the best policy. "Three months."

"Eighteen," says Clarke, draining her cider. "I win. Suck it."Everyone stares at her, and she shrugs. "I had a really bad breakup."

"Yeah, but--eighteen months?" Maya asks.

"What? It's not like I'm not getting off. I'm just not dating."

Bellamy has a sudden flash of Clarke with a vibrator between her legs, which he absolutely does not dwell on. Because--Jesus. He's in public, and they're friends. It's never going to be appropriate about for him to think about that, but he's still going to. Just, now is not the time.

"You don't have to date to get laid," Raven says. "Bellamy and Gina broke up six months ago and he got laid three months ago."

"Thanks for doing the math on my sex life," he says, raising his glass to her.

"I did pick up your girlfriend on the rebound, I had to make sure it wasn't weird."

"Mission not accomplished," he says, but he's smiling. Raven and Gina are great together. He can't actually be pissed about that. "Anyway, whatever. Anyone who isn't happy with their sex life, that sucks. Everyone else, it's cool. If Clarke doesn't care that she hasn't gotten laid in eighteen months, that's her business."

"Exactly. Thanks, Bellamy."

"Always glad to support everyone's right to not get laid." He stands. "I'm getting another round, anyone want anything?"

They wind down about fifteen minutes later, and Bellamy's chatting to Gina when Clarke bumps her shoulder against his.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey. Heading home?"

"I was thinking one more round. You want in?"

"Sure. One more," he tells Gina, and Clarke takes his hand to drag him to a booth, which trips up his throat. But it doesn't seem to be a big deal to her; she just acts like it's normal. Which would be fine with him. Platonic hand-holding. It can be a thing.

"Three months?" she asks, halfway through her beer.

It takes him a minute to remember. "Roughly. I don't keep an oversized calendar to track how many days it's been since I had sex, but I was at a wedding, so it's easy to remember." He takes a deliberate sip before he says, "Why?"

"I guess I didn't think you--I don't know. I would have expected you either hooked up a lot or were really relationship-focused."

"So, three months is weird."

"Not what I expected, yeah." She worries her lip. "Do you like casual sex?"

"It's fine," he says, slow. He really doesn't want to talk Clarke through casual sex, but he will. He's a good friend. "It depends on what you're looking for, I guess. I used to hook up a lot in college, but I don't really--like you said, it's not like I'm not getting off, so I'm fine."

She's worrying her lip again, but she meets his eyes. "So, if I just want someone to take me home and fuck me, like, right now. What would you suggest?"

He nearly swallows his tongue. "Uh, yeah. That would be--something you could do. I'm sure you could find someone."

"Someone," she repeats. She's smiling. "Do you want to get out of here, Bellamy?"

If he were a little less into her, he'd probably say no. Because it's absolutely a shitty idea. They work together. Casual sex with a coworker is a terrible idea, especially a coworker he's really, really into. But--if Clarke wants to get laid, and wants him to help, he can't possibly say no.

Which is the real reason he shouldn't do it, but--

"Sure, let's go."

Her apartment isn't far, and she kisses him when they get inside, which is a huge relief. He would have felt weird doing it first, but--fuck, he wanted to kiss her. 

"This is what I miss," she murmurs against his mouth, sliding her hands under his shirt, up his back.

"Just make out with your hand like the rest of us," he teases, but he can't actually pull back for long. She tastes like cider and lip gloss, and a little like frost from being outside. He lifts her up onto the kitchen counter and settles between her open legs for another long, wet kiss. "Yeah, okay," he says. "I know what you mean."

"Yeah," she says, wrapping her legs around him. "Don't be a smartass. I'm so right."

"If you didn't want a smartass, you should have taken Maya home." He slides his mouth down her neck, scraping his teeth against her skin. Her legs tense around him, pulling him closer.

"No," she says, and he freezes, pulls back as best he can, considering she's wrapped around him. She laughs, tangles her hand in his hair and pulls him in to kiss him again, warm and fond. "I meant, no marks. I don't want any of the students asking who I was doing this weekend."

"No marks," he agrees, tugging her shirt off. She's wearing a bright blue bra with pink polka dots, and it would be cute, if not for all the pale skin of her breasts. He wets his lips. "What about here?" he asks, leaning down to press his mouth to the swell of her left breast, tasting salt.

Her fingers tighten in his hair. "What about there?"

He bites her gently. "No one would see, right? If I left a mark right here."

"Oh. Yeah, they--no one would know."

He sucks the delicate skin into his mouth, working it with his tongue as she moans, rubbing against him. There's a perfect red mark when he pulls back, and he groans. "Fuck. You don't want me to fuck you here, right? I bet you have somewhere more comfortable."

Clare's looking down too. "First round," she says, and they disentangle just enough for her to slide off her jeans and underwear. He eats her out first, her legs hooked over his shoulders as he slides his tongue inside her, trying to taste as much as he can.

And then he fucks her, sucking a mark into her shoulder, somewhere her shirt will cover.

"Jesus, you're bad with instructions," she says, looking at the hickey. 

"Sorry."

She laughs, slides off the counter and undoes her bra. "You sound like you really mean that. Come on, I've got a bed."

He wets his lips. "A bed?"

"Like I said, round one." There's a tremor in her voice, and he kicks his jeans all the way off and wraps his arm around her waist, presses a kiss into her hair.

"I like beds."

The next morning, he assumes it was just one amazing night, that this will be all he gets, Clarke's mouth on his, his tongue inside her, her fingers on his dick, the feeling of her coming apart around him, memories he can look back on for the rest of his single life, because clearly nothing else is ever going to come close. But at least he got ruined by awesome sex.

On Monday, she comes by during lunch break, like she usually does, and even though he can't actually see any of the marks he left, he's acutely aware of them, and he wishes he could just shove the collar of her dress down and refresh the bruise on her shoulder, to make sure it never fucking goes away.

He thinks he acts fairly normal through lunch, and then rehearsal after school, which is a lot easier, because there are kids around, and he supervises the actors while she does the tech stuff, so it's not like they're actually hanging out or anything.

But then all the kids leave, and she climbs into his lap and kisses him. "I've been so fucking paranoid all day that my dress is going to slip and everyone's going to see that stupid fucking hickey."

She's grinding against his leg, and he can't quite catch up for a second. When he does, he shoves her dress down and sucks the hickey again, just like he's been wanting to do all day.

"This is the opposite of helping," she whines, pressing closer.

"Yeah, you seem really upset," he murmurs, and gets her off with his fingers.

He knows he should just talk to her about it. It's the mature thing to do. Sit down, have a conversation with the woman he's been in love with for a year about how they're having amazing sex now and they should do it all the time, in some kind of relationship context. But if all she wants is sex, he doesn't really want to jeopardize that.

Instead, he follows her home when she asks, fucks her after they go to bars and sometimes after rehearsal, sucks marks into her thighs and breasts, her shoulders, everywhere no one will see unless they get her like this. So if she's sleeping with anyone else, at least they'll know that he was there first. 

He really hopes she's not sleeping with anyone else.

She stays over every few weeks, or he'll sleep at her place, and that's his favorite. Waking up with her, fucking her in the morning, getting breakfast and hanging out on the couch with her, grading papers and heckling the TV because he's not ready to leave yet. And she does the same thing, which--he really does need to talk to her. Eventually. 

But until then, it's basically everything he wants, except that he never makes the first move, and he never knows if it's going to happen again. He wants to just relax, let himself fully enjoy it, because he knows she doesn't mind going without sex. If she's sleeping with him, it's because she wants _him_ , on some level. So--obviously it's fine.

No one else catches on for a couple months. The first one who does is, unsurprisingly, Octavia; she comes to visit him early one Sunday, when he isn't dressed yet, and spots a hickey Clarke left on his collarbone. She's generally less into marking him up than he's into marking her, but, honestly, it would be really hard for her to be _more_ into marking him up. He really, really loves giving her hickeys.

Octavia pokes the middle of the bruise. "Since when are you getting laid?"

"Who says I'm getting laid?" he asks. "Maybe I've developed a fetish for vacuum cleaners."

"Uh huh. Who's the girl?"

"It's nothing serious," he says, which is simultaneously technically true and about the biggest lie he has ever told her. "Do you expect me to send you updates every time I get laid? Should I set up an email blast?"

"You haven't dated anyone since Gina."

"And?"

"I don't know. It would be kind of cool if you did date someone again. I was hoping you had a secret girlfriend or something."

"That's weirdly sweet." He goes into his room and tugs on a shirt. "But, no. No girlfriend. I sometimes get laid outside of a relationship context. Hope you can deal with that."

As he expected, she rolls her eyes and drops it, and he mentions it to Clarke the next week. The play is over, which means he sees her less than he used to, and--honestly, it sucks. The whole reason he signed up for the play in the first place might have been to see more of her.

On the bright side, they're still going home together a couple times a week.

"My sister saw that hickey you gave me, so I'm officially no longer the one who has a problem with hickeys."

Clarke snorts, pokes the new bruise forming on her hip. "Sure you're not." 

He strokes his thumb over it too, grinning when she shivers. "No one's ever seen yours, right?"

"No. No one's ever seen any of them."

"So, yeah. You're a menace."

"My bad. I can't believe I did that to you."

"Right? Only one thing to do," he says, with gravity, and rolls over, settling between her legs.

"Eat me out?"

"More hickeys," he says, and sucks a mark into her inner thigh, the spot that always drives her crazy. She tries to drag him up to her cunt, but he doesn't go, bites her opposite hip, her breast, and then--

"Jesus, just fuck me already," she says, gasping, and he kisses her deep, slides into her, and hopes she keeps coming back forever.

On the last day of school, she comes to his room and says, "Hey, give me a ride home?"

He frowns. "How did you get in?"

"Monty."

"What's wrong with your car?"

"Are you going to give me a ride or not?"

"Sure," he says, grabbing his bag. 

"So, what are you doing this summer?"

He glances over his shoulder at her, because--this is definitely weird. Something's up. But she just gives him a bright smile, so he shrugs. "Nothing much. Me and O always go to Florida in July, so we're doing that. Lincoln's coming, so--awkward. That's probably why she keeps asking me if I've got a girlfriend yet, she doesn't want me to feel alone." Clarke sort of hums an affirmative response that gives him no useful information at all. "Other than that, just video games in my underwear, like most weekends."

"Cool."

"What about you?"

"Basically the same. I'll go see Wells for a few days and probably my mom, but I'm mostly just here. I'm doing some summer art programs and stuff."

"Yeah?"

She grins. "You know me, I'm really bad with downtime."

"True."

They drive in silence for a while, and then she says, "Actually, can I come to your place?"

"Is there a reason I can't just go to yours? Like, something at my apartment specifically that you want? Because if you just want to hang out, I'd rather not drive you home after."

Her smile is almost unsteady, and his heartbeat picks up. He's been stressing about this, honestly, wondering what would happen to the two of them after school finished, when they'd see less of each other. Coming up with excuses to see her has always been one of his least successful summer projects, and giving up on the sex on top of that would suck.

Maybe she thinks so too.

"My place is fine, yeah."

She basically jumps into his arms as soon as they're inside, wrapping herself around him and kissing him, long and deep and joyful. "Happy summer," she murmurs against his mouth.

"Happy summer," he agrees, sliding his arm under her ass to support her. "Miss me?"

"Preemptively. I'm going to see you, right?"

"Whenever you want," he says. It feels almost too honest once he's said it, but she just kisses him again. "Bed?"

"Bed's good."

He puts her down, smiles at the sight of her all under him, hair all spread out, grinning bright and wide. Her dress is sliding up, so he pushes it all the way, finds the last bruise he left on her thigh and sucks on it, bringing the blood back up.

"You're so lucky I'm into this," she says, already breathless.

"I really am."

"You can do my neck now too."

He jolts up, staring at her, finds her flushed and biting her lip. "What?"

"No school, so--"

He swallows past an unexpected lump in his throat. "Yeah, but--someone else might see."

"I assume my friends won't be scandalized that I have an active sex life again."

"Yeah, but--if they're anything like my sister, they'll want to know who gave it to you."

"What did you tell her?"

The question feels like a trap, but her expression is mild and curious. He still feels guilty. "Nothing, really. I didn't say it was you."

She nods, catches her lip with her teeth. "Yeah, I mean--I won't say it's you if you don't want me to."

He really cannot have this conversation from here, not when he wants to be close to her, so he slides up, curls around her. It feels like a miracle when she rolls into him and noses his neck, fully clothed. This is new territory for them, just holding each other. "I want to tell everyone in the entire world it's me," he says. "I would buy ad space to tell people it's me."

She laughs, slides her hand under his shirt and snuggles closer. "I still think you don't want any students to find out."

"Not that we're--" He tilts her head up and kisses her. "Ideally, I would not be getting this ad to say that I'm fucking you."

She still looks so happy, he can't even worry. "What's the message you're sending?"

He pushes her hair aside and presses his lips to her jaw, bites and then sucks gently. Just a small one. Just for him. 

Just for them. 

"The same one I've been sending the whole time," he admits. "You're mine."

"Yeah," she breathes. "I am."

They manage to have a conversation about it during dinner, once they've fucked twice, napped, and made out until his mouth actually went numb.

"I'm bad at--it seemed safer than talking about my feelings," Clarke admits.

"Yeah, definitely." He grins. "You should still tell me all about your feelings, though. In detail. You can draw some diagrams."

She grins back. "You're cute."

"That's not a feeling."

"I feel that you're cute."

"Way better." He wets his lips, reaches over to take her hand. "I like you too."

Her expression softens. "Good."

Two weeks later, they're getting drinks with Octavia, Lincoln, Monty, and Miller, which already feels like a triple date, when Monty spots the mark Bellamy left on Clarke's shoulder.

He did warn her about the tank top.

"Nice hickey, Clarke," he says, grinning, and she and Bellamy say, "Thanks," at the same time.

"I think you've done nicer ones, though," she adds, into their friends' stunned silence.

"That one on your hip last week was really great."

"I liked the one on--" She glances at Octavia. "A very appropriate place."

"Yeah, one of those platonic hickey locations," Bellamy agrees.

"Wrist."

He pauses. "I've never done wrist, have I?"

"Shit, I'm giving you ideas."

"I can't believe you didn't tell me," Octavia says. At least she looks more amused than pissed. "This whole time?"

"For the last few months, yeah." He smiles at Clarke, slides his hand into hers. "It really wasn't serious, though."

"Yeah, it was," Clarke says. "But we weren't talking about it." She squeezes his fingers. "Honestly, I thought you'd cool it with the hickeys once we were actually official."

He shrugs. "Give it a couple years. For the novelty to wear off."

"I'm not holding my breath," she says, and leans her head against his shoulder. He strokes the delicate skin of her wrist, thinks about seeing the bruise of his mouth there.

"Yeah," he agrees. "You definitely shouldn't."


End file.
